Words That No Longer Can Be Spoken
by WindTreesandStars
Summary: Silence is hard to bear. But sometimes asking for certain words to be spoken is even worse, and the speaking of them impossible. Rachel and Finn, 4x09, with one spoiler reference.


_One-shot. Based on an upcoming episode and one spoiler; all the rest is imagination. _

_I own nothing relating to Glee; it's all RIB's. _

She starts with annoyance at the phone buzzing in her hand. It's interrupting her pre-performance mantra where she tells herself, over and over, how flawless she will be when she takes her place center stage. Soon she'll be out there singing the final, curtain closing number at NYADA's Winter Showcase, an unprecedented honor for a first year student. She has to be perfect, and she doesn't need the distraction of a phone call breaking into her final moments to prepare.

_I don't have time for this, Kurt. You were supposed to come back and get your phone after singing instead of disappearing, and my job was supposed to be done. _As quickly as the annoyance rises, though, she stifles it. She isn't the only one having a big night; it's an equally big night for her best friend, the night that will determine whether he joins her as a fellow student following the same dreams to the white lights of Broadway, and she knows that she isn't the only one anxious about his audition.

She's promised Kurt that she'll hold the phone up so his dad can hear the audition. But apparently the House Subcommittee on Early Childhood, Elementary, and Secondary Education was working late in D.C. tonight, because Burt never called. Rachel had sent him a recording of Kurt's performance on his son's phone as soon as it was over. She figures Burt had probably watched it and is now calling to ask Kurt how he felt it had gone.

Not bothering to look at the caller ID, she hits receive, lifts the phone to her ear, and prepares to quickly agree with Kurt's dad about the great job their guy did before getting off the phone so she can concentrate again on her upcoming moment to be in the spotlight.

Before she can even say "Hello," a soft, husky voice sounds in her ear excitedly asking, "Kurt? How did it go, dude? You nailed it, right?"

She freezes, lowering the device and staring at the picture on the screen. She sees him on the stage at McKinley, looking like he is surrounded by the Grease cast with his arm tight around Arty's shoulder. It was the curtain call she'd missed by running out of the auditorium. It looks like the cast had pulled their directors out on stage to soak up the applause and approval of the standing ovation from the audience. Kurt had captured a moment when his step-brother's face was lit up with the absolute joy and confidence he always got from performing. It was a look she knew by heart. He seemed to be staring straight into the camera lens. _So that's how he knew I wasn't there for the curtain call; he was looking for me, to see what I thought._

"Kurt? What happened? Are you OK?"

The voice speaks again, tinged with anxiety. She knows the precise expression that is clouding his face right now – fear of hearing bad news mixed with trying to find words to show he wishes there's something he could do to make everything all right. If the silence goes on much longer, she knows, the anxiety will start to turn to panic as he tries to figure out a way to rescue his brother from whatever is going on.

"Hi, Finn."

Two words. The first she's spoken to him in over a month; the first since he instituted the no contact rule. His name falls hesitantly from her lips, a word rusty from disuse, because her ex-boyfriend – ex-fiance, ex-lover, ex-soul mate, ex-best friend – is a topic Kurt is not allowed to mention around her.

A harsh intake of breath comes through the line, and then it's her turn to sit in silence.

She waits. He says nothing.

They had three years of talking to each other all the time; this last year, they talked to each other for the better part of every day and every night. But now, after four months of silence; after break-up upon break-up upon break-up, it seems there are no words left in the world to utter.

He doesn't hang up, but neither does he make a sound.

She has to say something. He's called to hear about Kurt's audition; she can tell him about it and be done. She's promised Kurt to let his family know how things went if they called, and he is Kurt's family.

"Kurt was amazing. He sounded better than he ever has – much better than half the students in my class. I couldn't see Madame Tibideaux's face from where I was standing in the wings, but I'm sure he got in. You'd have been so proud to hear him, Finn."

Still no words from across the miles in Lima.

"He asked me to tell Burt about it if his dad called. Actually, he asked me to hold up the phone so Burt could hear – remember how Ms. Pillsbury did for our first Sectionals performance when Mr. Schue couldn't come with us? But Burt didn't call, so . . ."

She's babbling now, words gushing out in an attempt to fill the ongoing void of silence.

"So you can call Burt and tell him, OK? Nothing's certain until Kurt meets with Madame Tibideaux next Monday, but tell Burt and Car—and your mom that things look really promising. In fact, if you could call Burt now, that would be a big help, because I think he'll be calling to check in at any moment and I'm going on stage to perform soon and won't be able to answer. It's the Winter Showcase and I'm singing the closing number to bring the curtain down – it's a big deal, and it would be great to be able to go out on stage knowing that I wasn't keeping Kurt's dad from hearing about things, and . . ."

"Congratulations." Finally, a word. Spoken so low she wonders if she's really heard it or has just imagined it.

"Excuse me?"

His voice, even softer than usual, unusually controlled and devoid of emotion, sounds again.

"That's a big deal. Bringing the curtain down; that's the job of the star. So congratulations."

They're the first words he's spoken to her in more than a month.

"Th—thank you. I'm excited. Nervous, but also excited."

As the silence descends again, she finds herself waiting for the words that once would have immediately come from him if she said she was nervous: _What do you have to be nervous about, Rachel? You're amazing. No one can sing this as well as you. You'll knock everyone's socks off, and they'll realize how lucky they are to be hearing a real star perform._ _Don't be nervous; you were born for this moment. _She realizes that when she walks out on stage it will be the first time in over three years that she'll give a performance without him either standing in the wings watching her or standing on stage singing beside her. It will be the first time since they met that she'll go on stage before an audience without words and looks of encouragement from him. It will be the first time she'll have to do it all on her own, without him.

She's trying to imagine what that will be like when he breaks the silence once more.

"I'll call Burt. Tell Kurt I'll be in touch with him."

She knows he's about to hang up. Before she even processes the words, she blurts out, "A-aren't you going to wish me good luck? Tell me to break a l- . . . ."

She stops, the broken phrase lingering. The silence takes on new weight. It is heavy; dark; palpable; a bottomless pit. And it goes on and on and on and on.

Finally she hears him say, quickly, tightly, "Good luck." And the phone goes dead; the call is over.

There are so many words that can no longer be spoken between them.


End file.
